'Not bringing a date was the best idea I had for ages, as the whole tent is crammed full of thrusting rock chicks'
I went to a concert the other night. OK, it wasn't just any old concert. It was THE CONCERT OF THE F**KING CENTURY. Yes, you guessed it - the Cooperman went to see Led Zeppelin. Man, it was fantastic - I'm the world's biggest Zep fan and this was totally awesome. The place was studded with celebs and I was right there headbanging with the best of them. Hugh Grant gave me his ticket as he doesn't like them (whaaaaat?). Even better, he gave me his spare ticket as well. I sold it to some anorak sap outside the Underground station for a grand.
I get into the big tent (they're right, it is better pissing out than in) and I'm in a little VIP area where everyone who's anyone in London is having free champagne. I see all kinds of people - Nile Rodgers from Chic, Jeremy Clarkson, Mick Jagger, Kate Moss, Juliette Lewis. I was in heaven. I spent 10 weird minutes in a sort of conversation with Lewis. The word "kooky" was definitely invented for her (as, I think, was the phrase "loop the loopy"). We both know the same kind of people back in LA, and she was with an old friend who used to work with me at Paramount. He was an asshole, but it helped me to be seen with them, so I put in the time. I tell everyone that I have come as Hugh Grant and they're all totally impressed.
Not bringing a date was the best idea I had for ages as the whole tent is crammed full of thrusting rock chicks. I soon dump Lewis and mingle freely - most of the crowd couldn't even name a Zeppelin number but what do I care? I high-five Clarkson who is, at least, a real Zeppelin fan - indeed, I don't think he's bought a record since. He got his ticket off the editor of The Sun, Rebekah Wade, so I trump him with my Hugh Grant blag. He's off to Afghanistan to cheer up the troops so this is his last bit of fun for a bit and he's going for it big-style. What is it with Brit men and Afghanistan? Looks like, if you're on the television, and want to prove that you're a he-man, you go off on some glory trip to Kabul. What's so tough about putting everybody's lives at risk by getting soldiers to protect you as you swan around the place waving like the fucking Queen? I don't get it. It's not like this happened in the US when we were in Vietnam? If you were tough you went off and actually fought the "Cong", otherwise you headed for Canada. The only "celebs" who ever visited were commies like Jane Fonda and they went "up north" to Hanoi. Maybe if Clarkson and Ross Kemp and their type had to go visit al-Qa'ida on the Pakistani border there might be fewer trips? Just a thought - actually, maybe I should arrange one of these freebies for myself? How about a heavily armed, lightning visit to Iraq? It'd be a real chick-pleaser. Expect an article from me soon - "Cooper Brown, our man on the Front Line".
Just as things can't get any weirder in the tent and we're all moving towards our seats for the Zep, Paris Hilton saunters in. She spots me and we get chatting. I haven't seen her since a weird evening at Chateau Marmont, but she's pleased to see a friendly face. It gets hilarious because she's heard that Hugh Grant is coming and she thinks that "he's hot". I tell her that I have come in his place and I can see that she's quite impressed. I actually find it very difficult to talk to her without having the image of her slightly unimpressive oral sex skills flickering through my head. There was a sex tape of her floating about a couple of years back and Ben couldn't stop watching it for about a month solid. I'm nodding and sipping my drink but all I can see are her little tits and Rick Solomon's huge grin. I make my excuses and head into the venue to watch the old guys rock out.
When I get to my seat I'm really pleased to find that I'm sitting next to the brothers from Oasis (it really was that kind of evening). I met the thick singing one at a party a couple of weeks ago and we sort of nodded at each other and I could see that he was impressed that I had this kind of VIP access. What I hadn't thought about was that the moron I sold my ticket to in the Underground suddenly turns up and sits next to me like I'm his date or something. The guy is so uncool, a total stamp collector and he goes mental when he sees all the people he's sitting next to. He keeps leaning over me to get the Oasis guys to talk to him and to get their autographs. They then think that he's with me. Then this moron leans behind me two rows and starts hassling Juliette Lewis, who starts looking at me to do something about him. I have a bottle of champagne hidden under my seat and I long to smash him over his greasy head, but there is no way to do this subtly so I just sit there while this asshole ruins my cred. Meanwhile the Zep ROCK but the moment they finish I'm out of my seat and away from this civilian low-life and into the safe womb of the after-show party.
The rest of the evening is a bit of a Pablo blur but know this: Led Zeppelin rock, I rock, and back at the Cooperdome I had fabulously shallow sex with some record company groupie that totally rocked. What more can a man ask for? Cooper Out.